Cut and Run
by Arlene2
Summary: [Complete] Race took pride in being one step ahead of everyone else. Spot took pride in making him realize he wasn’t.
1. one

A/N: A little piece on Race and Spot, their past and present friendship/rivalry. Five parts total.

Violence and language warnings.

* * *

* * *

"Jesus Christ, Spot."

"What?" Spot said, not looking up from the day-old newspaper he was trying to read.

"You gonna do somethin' about this?" Race asked harshly, keeping a steadying hand on Blink's shoulder. Blink was sitting with his head in his hands; his eyes squeezed shut. His nose was bleeding and the cards he had been holding were scattered on the floor. One of Spot's boys was wiping his fist on his shirt, a thin smile on his face.

"About that?" Spot briefly glanced over the top of the page at Blink. "No."

He had seen the whole thing from the corner of his eye.

No doubt, Race thought it had been unprovoked. The truth was Kid had been asking for it since the moment he'd walked in. The game had been going pretty well, considering Race was winning and his own boys were losing their money at an increasing rate. It was only a matter of time before tempers flared and someone got decked. Kid Blink got the honor.

"He was askin' for it," Spot said. He flipped the paper over and searched the back for anything remotely interesting.

Even though Racetrack came to Brooklyn regularly, Spot never played cards when he was in. He had the feeling Race cheated, though he couldn't ever pin him for it. That, and he didn't like how Race could read him so well, how he could call his bluffs and win with irritating consistency. It had been years since they had sat at the same table.

"I dwidn't wask fwor wit," Blink protested, holding his sleeve to his nose to staunch the blood.

"My boy told you to not to let your cards show. Twice," Spot replied, finding an article on the bottom of the page. Something about The Refuge slashing its budget. Maybe they'd close it altogether, that'd be a red-letter day in his book. Not that he spent much time there. A dollar went a long way to convincing the bulls of innocence.

"That ain't no reason to sock 'im, and you know it," Race retorted.

He probably had a point, not that it mattered.

"What am I, your mother?" Spot said with faint sarcasm, "Hit him back if you got a problem."

The boy that had punched Kid was almost twice the size of Race. Spot chuckled to himself. He could only hope Race would actually do it, he looked angry enough and it would've been the best entertainment he'd had all week. Getting Race to fight was like an art form in itself, he always avoided it if he could.

"We're done here," Race said sharply, tossing his cards on the table.

Spot smiled behind the newspaper. Predictable. Cut and run at the first sign of trouble. That's why he lived in Manhattan, he knew he couldn't cut it in Brooklyn. He'd left the first day Spot wormed his way to the top. He knew it would've been trouble to stay.

"What about our money?" demanded one of the other boys.

"What about it? You lost your heads, the game's over. Tough luck," Race said as he pocketed his own coins and helped Blink to his feet.

His boys weren't too happy about that, he could feel the tension in the silence. Spot lifted his eyes to find most of them were looking at him, waiting for an indication of how far they would be allowed to go. With a nod of his head, they would take the money by force; if he did nothing, they would do nothing.

Race was looking at him as well, almost daring him to do something about it.

That settled it.

He could care less if his boys got a chance to win their money back, but he took any opportunity he was given to mess with Race.

"Pick up your cards and play, Higgins," Spot told him with just enough authority to get under his skin. If there was one thing Race hated more than losing, it was being told what to do.

It was about more than putting him in his place, though Spot never got tired of reminding him who was higher up in the world. Race took pride in being one step ahead of everyone else and Spot took pride in making him realize he wasn't.

"No," Race said, careful to not look him in the eye or do anything that would be considered open disrespect. Smart boy. Though, it was probably killing him to keep his wisecracking mouth shut.

"It's awright, Rwace," Blink said, touching the bridge of his nose gingerly. He winced and swore under his breath.

"No, it's not," Race said, clearly directing the comment at Spot. "I'll come back when you teach them some manners."

Glancing to Blink, Race said a few words that Spot couldn't hear and motioned for him to go outside. Blink looked hesitant, but complied.

Spot nodded briefly, indicating he should be allowed to pass. They didn't need someone bleeding all over the cards.

"Finish the game," Spot said coolly. It was more than a request; it was a demand, though Spot was careful to keep his voice even. He knew Race would recognize the tone for what it was, a warning that he was going too far.

"Fuck you," Race said, managing to hold back whatever else he wanted to say. There was more irritation than anger in his voice, so Spot let it slide.

It was good to know Race still had heart in him, Spot had always thought Manhattan had made him soft. He would have smiled if his boys weren't there. The situation being what it was, however, Spot regarded Racetrack with mild indifference.

Race looked at Spot harshly; Spot returned the sentiment.

"Finish the game," Spot repeated, a hint of a threat in his voice. It had the calculated effect. He watched as Race resentfully picked up his cards.

They were only in his hand a moment before he unceremoniously dropped them on the floor.

"You finish it," Race replied bitingly. With a parting challenge in his eyes, he turned to the door, not waiting to see what effect his words had.

Spot couldn't keep the smile from his face any longer. It had taken such little effort.

He was on his feet before Race took a step. To his boys, he had been insulted in his own house; to him, it wasn't nearly that serious, but he wouldn't let on. He had his reputation to uphold. Chairs scraped against the floor as he followed Race out the door. They were probably looking forward to a good fight. On another occasion, he wouldn't have minded an audience, but this was personal.

"Back off!" Spot barked over his shoulder. They obeyed and didn't follow. Instead, most moved to the window, trying to see through the filthy glass.

He was going to enjoy this.


	2. two

"Let's just go back," Blink said, glancing back at the door nervously as he kept up with Race. "It don't hurt that much, we can still play."

Race didn't have to look behind him to know that he needed to keep walking, fast. He could hear bets being made. Three-to-one he'd get off one good hit, twenty-to-one he'd stay on his feet, no odds for him winning.

"No, this ain't about cards," Race said.

"I'm sorry, Race. I asked to come. I didn't-"

"It ain't about you neither," Race cut him off. Blink nodded slowly, confused as to what else it could be about.

Race knew he wasn't getting away with a stunt like the one he pulled. He should have played the damn game, taken them for all they were worth and left. He shouldn't have let Spot get to him, he knew better than that. They could usually manage to sit in a room without ever finding a need to talk to each other, casual insults aside. But as hard as he tried to ignore the fact Spot existed, Spot tried just as hard to goad him into a confrontation. It was an endless game and Spot had infinite patience for it.

"Higgins!" Spot called out.

Race didn't stop; instead he shoved Blink toward the sidewalk.

"Stay outta this, no matter what happens," Race told him. Blink started to argue, but Race kept walking.

He wasn't running, he was no coward, but he wasn't stupid either. Spot made it his business to know how to fight. And if it came down to them going against each other, Race had no delusions about who would come out on top.

Race turned the corner quickly and headed down a side street.

He was just trying to even the odds a bit. Spot on his own was an entirely different beast than the one that constantly needed to prove himself in front of his boys. Race knew if he could confront him on his own, his chances of avoiding Spot's fist increased significantly. Four-to-one he could talk his way out of it free and clear.

"Higgins!" Spot shouted angrily.

Race took a quick look up and down the street to make sure he was out of sight of the Brooklyn house and that nobody had followed Spot. Seeing he was safely away from prying eyes, he stopped. He silently went on guard as he turned around to face Spot, hoping he hadn't made a mistake in not running when he had the chance.

As Spot approached, he pushed up his sleeves and regarded Racetrack with what appeared to be genuine spite. That wasn't good.

Race tensed.

Spot looked him over, his severe expression dissolving into a grin. "You're scared."

"I ain't never been scared of you," Race said evenly. Not that he would ever admit to it if he had been.

Spot glanced sideways, making sure there was no one else within earshot. Satisfied there wasn't, he regarded Race with visible amusement. "You're a liar."

"Makes two of us."

"I'd watch my mouth if I was you. You're lettin' it get you into trouble."

"Are you gonna soak me or what? I got things I gotta do tonight," Race replied dryly.

Race knew he would have already done it, if that's what he was really after. Apparently, all Spot wanted that night was to get a rise out of him. Typical. It was all part of his game. Rather than breathing easier, Race became more annoyed.

Spot shrugged, though there was still a hint of a smile on his face. "You'll owe me one if I don't."

"I bet you'd like that," Race said coolly. It had been several years since he owed Spot anything and he wanted to keep it that way.

"You wouldn't. That's good enough for me."

"You'se real lousy, you know that?" Race said, no longer hiding his irritation. He knew Spot wasn't exaggerating. Half the things Spot did were just to piss him off. He suspected Spot stayed up at night figuring out ways to mess with him. If it were anyone else, he would have taken it up as a challenge. Because it was Spot, it was just a frustrating fact of life.

"Stop, you're makin' me cry," Spot said with sarcasm. He was clearly enjoying himself, something that made Race even more aggravated, which, in turn, only seemed to encourage him more.

Even though he could think of several more things he wanted to say, all pertaining to Spot's mother, Race didn't respond, he didn't trust himself to keep civil.

His eye was drawn suddenly by movement further down the street and he couldn't help but notice as a few of Spot's boys crept up to the corner, not wanting to miss any action. They were muttering to each other, clearly disappointed Race was still standing and not lying in a pool of his own blood. He tried to look away before Spot realized they were no longer alone, but it was too late.

Spot followed his eyes, quickly glancing back. Race could see the exact moment when Spot stiffened and his expression turned hard. Predictable. There was nothing Spot cared about more in life than his reputation. He couldn't let his boys think he was soft or that Race had fast-talked him.

This wasn't going to end well. Race instinctively fell back a step. Already resigned to the fact he would be getting a black eye, he impulsively decided if he was going down, he was going to do it in style.

"That's all you care about, ain't it? What they think," Race said, ridiculing him just loud enough to be overheard.

"Shut it," Spot growled. That struck a nerve. Race took another step back.

"You don't want 'em to find out you'se a nobody just like them," Race continued loudly. He would've paid money to see the look Spot was giving him. It was halfway between disbelief and rage.

"You say another word, I swear to God, I'll deck you." Spot's hand was already clenched into a fist.

"Oh yeah? Well-" Race didn't get a chance to finish the thought.

Before he could react, Spot had swung out and punched him squarely in the jaw. Beyond the dull ringing in his ears, Race could hear laughter and a few cheers. Spot wasn't smiling though. In fact, his eyes were narrowed and his fist pulled back, as if he anticipated Race wasn't done mouthing off. Spot knew him too well.

"Is that all you got?" Race said as he worked his jaw slowly. Considering he was still on his feet, he knew Spot hadn't hit as hard as he could have.

"Keep talkin' and you'll find out."

"You're gettin' weak on me, Conlon," Race said as loudly as he dared.

Race was vaguely aware of the fact he had gone too far when Spot's boys fell silent and the smiles disappeared.

Spot didn't hesitate and his eyes never wavered. He struck Race again, hard. The speed and force of the hit sent Race sprawling to the street. He hadn't held back that time and Race was painfully aware of it.

Even though he had known it was coming, he hadn't been prepared. Race shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He unsteadily pushed himself up to his knees and ran a hand over his jaw to make sure he still had all his teeth. Luckily, he did. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spot move dangerously close. Race had to consciously keep himself from flinching as Spot stood over him.

"You ain't welcome here no more," Spot announced.

Race looked up at him sharply. That was new. He'd never been banished before. In truth, he would've rather been soaked. He made a lot of money in Brooklyn, not to mention he sold there a fair amount of the time. Of course, Spot knew all that and probably figured it would hurt more than a few punches.

"You made me do that," Spot said a moment later, dropping his voice so only Racetrack could hear. It wasn't an apology, it was a simple statement of fact. Race had never seen Spot regret anything.

"I know," Race conceded. He had backed Spot into a corner, insulted him repeatedly and had done it in front of his boys. He deserved what he got, but it was worth it. He would have smiled if didn't hurt so much.

Spot considered him for only a brief moment before he turned back toward his house, rolling down his sleeves as he walked.

"Get 'im home," he said to Blink as he passed by. There was no sympathy in his voice and he didn't look back.

Still unable to stop the ground from spinning, Race reached out until he found Blink's arm. He nodded silently, letting Blink know he was all right, and pulled himself to his feet.

Two-to-one he'd be back in Brooklyn by the end of the week.

* * *


	3. three

Spot shuffled the deck absently as he walked. Race had left it behind after he'd stormed out in all his bigheaded glory. It was pure luck that Spot had found the cards before someone else decided to swipe them.

They were Race's best, though that fact didn't make Spot handle them with any more care. Part of him wanted to throw them into the river or give them to the meanest kid he knew and tell Race to go fetch. So many possibilities.

He could always keep them for himself. It was a nice deck. He knew it would drive Race mad to see his beloved cards permanently just out of reach. Spot flipped the cards over and glanced at the faded design on the back. Old, but nice. They had been his once, back when he played.

Race hadn't asked for them back and probably wouldn't as a matter of pride.

They both had pride. Maybe too much, maybe just enough.

Brooklyn wasn't the easiest place to live, it never had been. Being young made it worse. It meant scraping for food and fighting it out for a place to sleep and sell. Some kids never pulled themselves out of the heap, growing oddly content with the battle. Most thought Brooklyn kids were mean, they were right. Mean and proud.

Race was never mean, though. He saw no need to kick other kids around, even when they deserved it. He had complained along with the rest of them, but he had been satisfied. All he'd wanted out of life was a sure tip, a deck of cards and a few friends to sit around a table and play with.

Spot hadn't been so easily satisfied. Sure, he'd sold his papers, played cards, and joked around. But his mind never stopped working, trying to find a way up and out. He saw some living better than others and it wasn't because they were smart, or because they worked hard. It wasn't even because they were well liked. The respect they had came from their strength. Respect born of fear.

He couldn't pin down the exact moment he knew. Maybe it was after being kicked out to the street one night even after he'd paid, but the realization came to him with sudden clarity. He was better than every single kid around him and he wouldn't be satisfied until they all knew it.

Ambition, Race had called it. He'd said too much ambition was unhealthy, whatever that meant. But it quickly became clear that ambition and lack of it was what separated them. Spot supposed that was when they truly began to part ways, though Race didn't leave his side until much later and with just cause.

Spot stopped shuffling the cards long enough to smooth out a crease on one of the corners. It was out of habit, he could care less if Race got the deck back with half the cards missing. Served him right.

The sound of running footsteps drew his attention. They were light and erratic, just a young kid. Nothing to worry about. The bulls had polished shoes that clicked heavily against the cobblestones. Anyone else he needed to avoid wouldn't be running, they'd be waiting quietly around a corner or sidling up to him with a smile.

The small feet fell quickly instep with his.

"What?" Spot asked, continuing to walk at his own pace.

"T-The Thursday game got moved," the small boy said hurriedly, struggling to keep up.

"Where?"

He already knew where.

"Manhattan," the boy confirmed. Spot did his best to keep the annoyance from his face.

In a matter of a few days, Race had systematically moved every major game out of Brooklyn. He could only imagine how many strings Race had to pull to get that done. But he'd done it, the lousy bastard. He expected Race would come back at him with something, but nothing like that.

The kid had brains. But for someone so smart, he had his moments of sheer stupidity, like the other night. Of course, that was part of the fun. Spot liked how he could make Race reckless. He liked pushing him just far enough that he forgot to be careful, if only for a moment.

Even when he took a big gamble, Race knew exactly what he was doing. A game of cards might be a game of luck to some, but to Race it was a game of skill. Each move was exact, each loss was planned. Just like his revenge. He didn't risk anything, carefully planning the best way to attack without setting a foot in Brooklyn. He was real smart. That was half the reason Spot liked him, he kept him on his toes.

"So?" the boy piped up.

"So what?" Spot said, almost forgetting he still had company.

The boy hesitated, but finally worked up the courage to ask. "Can he come back? If he says he's real sorry, you know, real _real_ sorry?"

Spot looked down sharply at the boy, who promptly paled and fell back another step. Someone had put him up to that.

Nobody liked having to go so far out of Brooklyn to play a game and they had been indirectly hinting all week that what Race did wasn't so bad, that he had possibly been drunk at the time and that he'd been telling anyone who would listen that he was deeply sorry. Right. They just wanted the games back. Spot just wanted a moment's peace.

"Fine. Quit botherin' me about it," Spot replied with forced indifference. He couldn't have people thinking he cared one way or the other.

He'd already decided to let Race back in. It wasn't worth the trouble and he'd rather deal with one kid with a chip on his shoulder than fifty angry ones he had to live with. He didn't expect an apology, but he'd lie and say he'd gotten one.

Race would never apologize and mean it, not to him anyway.

* * *

"So there was this girl," Blink started, launching enthusiastically into his latest story. Mush just rolled his eyes, but listened anyway.

The restaurant was crowded and they had been lucky to get a seat, let alone a table. Hats were off, dishes were piled with food and the noise was almost unbearable. Jack was hanging over the top of the booth, attempting to swipe Dutchy's coffee off of the next table. Race moved his plate just in time to avoid Jack's shoe in his sandwich.

"Coffee?" Jack offered as he righted himself and put the cup on the table triumphantly. By the delayed shouts of surprise, it was clear Dutchy had just found out what was missing. Jack grinned guiltily.

"Shut up, this is the best part." Blink waved him off. "So then I--"

Race took a bite of his sandwich and blissfully ignored the commotion around him. It was a controlled chaos, but he had patience for it. Things couldn't have been better. The sun was shining, the headlines were good and Spot Conlon had cracked.

Sure, he'd held out longer than Race had anticipated, but it was still a resounding victory.

Of course, Spot hadn't _actually_ said he was allowed back in, but made it known that he wouldn't be stopped. And Race didn't _actually_ say he was sorry, rather he indicated that he wasn't not sorry. To top it all off, he said he would only apologize if Spot came out of Brooklyn to hear it, which had just as much probability of happening as Hell freezing over. Spot left the relative safety of home for few circumstances, least of which would be a one-minute, half-assed apology. It was his own thickly veiled way of saying Spot could go screw himself.

At the very least, he had gotten a laugh out of the whole thing. At the most, he had made Spot finally realize who he was dealing with. There were other kinds of power besides fear and strength. Doing people favors, saying the right thing, letting them win sometimes, it all added up. A good word went farther than a black eye. Spot may have forced him out, but he could just as easily force his way back in without raising a finger.

"Would you get your fingers off my plate?" Race said, smacking Jack's hand away a second too late. He had taken the other half of his sandwich and was making quick work of it.

"What? It's not like your eatin' it," Jack said with his mouth full before he took a sip of his misbegotten coffee. Race didn't argue, he was in too good of a mood. It truly was a wonderful day.

"--So there I am, and I turned around, real quick," Blink continued, barely able to contain himself, "and you could see her bare leg. All the way up to the knee!"

"There's no way. You're makin' that up," Mush said, not believing it for a second. There were a few groans from the other boys who had been listening. Race couldn't help but laugh, it was probably the one story Blink hadn't embellished and nobody believed him.

"Shit," Jack breathed.

"I'm bein' serious, I swear!" Blink insisted.

Race glanced to Jack, picking up a note of fear in his voice. As he followed Jack's eyes to the front door, all conversations stopped and the restaurant fell silent. There was a sudden tension in the room and it didn't take long for Race to figure why. The smile drained from his face.

"She musta thought no one was lookin'…"

Blink trailed off as he noticed no one was paying attention to him any longer. All eyes were focused on the front of the restaurant. He turned around to see what everyone else thought was more important and swore under his breath as he found out.

Spot Conlon had just walked through the door, along with a few of his boys. He planted his cane on the floor and stood quietly as he scanned the tables, unaffected by the attention. If it were anyone else, they might have gone unnoticed, but Spot was seldom seen outside of Brooklyn and the fact he showed up in the middle of the day only added to the abnormality of the situation.

Race slumped down in the booth before Spot looked in his direction. He didn't think for a moment Spot would actually come. Spot had called his bluff. He had no intention of apologizing and certainly not in front of his friends.

Pulling on his hat, Race climbed over Jack and out of the booth.

"Race," Jack asked warily, putting two-and-two together, "what's goin' on?"

"Just goin' for some fresh air, that's all," Race answered hurriedly as he dug into his pocket and put a few pennies on the table. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Spot was already on his way over. The only path to escape was right past Spot or throwing himself through a window. Race eyed the window.

"Go while you still gotta chance," Jack said quickly as he nodded to the back door. Race hesitated, he would still have to get past Spot, but at least he would avoid the Brooklyn boys crowded around the front.

He straightened up and hastily moved toward the back, trying to be casual about it. Race tensed as he neared Spot, not knowing what to expect. But Spot didn't slow down, he didn't even spare him a glance as they passed each other. "Don't go far" was all Spot said, though Race could tell he was smiling.

Race kept walking, silently thankful for whatever mood Spot was in. He could have dragged the whole mess out into the open, but he didn't. And even though Race had the chance to make a break for it, he wouldn't. He'd taken a risk and lost. Spot had won, called him out fair and square. Besides, the object was to get into back into Brooklyn, and the quicker they had their heart-to-heart, the sooner he'd be back in business at the tracks.

As he pushed through the door, he looked back to see Spot shaking Jack's hand and Jack doing his best to look unintimidated.

Race didn't go far. He had already pulled out a cigarette before the door closed behind him. It was already lit before he sat on a crate to wait amid the garbage and broken dishes. It was only halfway gone before he heard a familiar pair of footsteps round the side of the building. He hadn't expected to wait long. Just long enough for Spot to make it look like he hadn't come all that way for such a stupid thing. He did though. He was petty like that. Spot couldn't even let him gloat for a day.

Race stood. He wanted to be on his feet for this.

"You got somethin' to say to me?"

Race nodded as he took a final drag off his cigarette and flicked it to the side. He knew he had to say something resembling an apology without choking on the words. He reminded himself it was for the greater good and that no one would hear it, so he could always deny it later if necessary.

"What happened the other day," Race began reluctantly, "it shouldn't have happened."

"Close. Try again," Spot said. He didn't actually laugh, or even hint at a smile, but he might as well have been grinning like an idiot. Race shifted his feet against the ground and took a breath. He hoped he'd be able to live this down.

"I guess you could say I was, you know, sorry."

After a moment, Spot nodded slightly. Apology accepted.

"Yeah, I'm real sorry. I can't sleep at night 'cause I'm so sorry," Race continued, unable to keep a straight face for long. "It's like a chain around my neck, the burden's too heavy to bear. I wanna sell all I got and give it to the poor, to make up for-"

"Don't fuck around with me."

A smile flickered at the corner of Race's mouth, and he couldn't help himself. "I'm sorry," Race repeated with feigned sincerity.

"Let me make somethin' _real_ clear to you," Spot said, careful to keep his voice low. "I don't care how they do things here. You're in Brooklyn, you do what I say. You open your mouth against me again, it's gonna be the last thing you ever do. You got me?"

"Sure thing," Race said. "I'm scared for my life, I'll sleep with one eye open." He got the message, but he wasn't going quake in his shoes.

Spot's expression turned cold, hiding any anger he may have felt at having his threats brushed off. He lifted his cane and brought the top threateningly close to the side of Race's face.

Even with the gruesome knowledge of how many heads Spot had cracked open with the end of that cane, Race didn't back away. The rounded metal brushed against his skin, catching the fading edges of the bruise Spot had so thoughtfully given him. Still, Race didn't move. It wasn't because he was particularly brave, or that he was arrogant. It was the same reason he could look Spot square in the eye when no one else would. He knew when it was safe to and when it wasn't. Consciously or not, Spot always warned him once. Whether with a look or a word, Spot clearly defined a line of what he was willing to tolerate. Crossing that line was a matter of personal risk, as Race had learned more times than he could count, but he always knew what he was in for.

"Do yourself a favor and quit while you're ahead," Spot said, tapping him lightly on the jaw as a reminder, before he lowered his cane back to the ground. Race took the advice and didn't push it.

He'd gotten what he wanted anyway. He was back in Brooklyn and didn't have to grovel for the privilege. That was a win in his book. The fact that he did end up uttering an apology was only a slight dent in his victory.

Satisfied with Race's silence, Spot turned to go. He stopped short, as if just remembering something important.

"You left your cards behind the other night," Spot said casually. Too casually.

Race felt his eyes narrow. Any interest Spot had in his cards couldn't be good.

"Where are they?" Race demanded.

"I hope you can swim," Spot said, allowing a bit of a smile.

He didn't. He wouldn't. Race gave him a rotten look, which he received with open amusement. He did. He'd tossed them in the river. They were probably being picked apart by some stupid Brooklyn fish at that very moment.

"I kept one for ya, you know, for old time's sake," Spot said as he pulled the card from his pocket and held it out for him. Race snatched it from his hand.

To his credit, Spot didn't wait around to rub it in. He didn't even watch as Race took the card and didn't look back as he strolled away. It was as if he knew he'd done a real lousy thing. If Race didn't know better, he would've dared to think Spot had thought twice before doing it. But Spot could fake caring the way the rest of them could fake a cough on a slow selling day.

Race rigidly waited for his footsteps to fade before he looked down at the card and flipped it over. It was the Joker.

That lousy bastard.


	4. four

It was as if he had been gone for a year instead of a week.

Once Race entered the Brooklyn house, he could hardly take a step without someone clapping him on the back or shaking his hand. On top of that, he was promised the only unbroken chair in the place and was told that some old newspapers had been wedged under one of the legs so it wouldn't wobble. Race stifled a smile, half-expecting rose petals to be strewn at his feet. He bet they never gave Spot the unbroken chair.

Sure, they were acting nicer, but that didn't mean they would cheat any less. He wouldn't be surprised if Spot had told them to rob him blind as a welcome back. Not that they would be able to, their attempts at cheating were clumsy at best and easy to catch.

Race kept his eye out for Spot as he weaved his way through the mess of furniture and bodies. He was nowhere in sight. Though, between the haze of smoke and the constant movement of people, it was hard to tell.

"The boss in?" he asked the nearest kid as he found the game table.

"Don't worry about it," the boy assured him, misinterpreting the question. Race wasn't worried about any trouble from Spot, he could handle that. He just wanted to know if Spot was around, much the same way he'd want to know if there was a shark in the water where he was swimming.

Race didn't ask again. He gave the room another once over, just to be sure. Satisfied Spot wasn't there, he sat down at the crowded table. It didn't surprise him. He was probably out stealing other people's prized possessions to throw in rivers.

Race pulled out the deck of cards he had borrowed from Blink for the night. He spread them face-up on the table so everyone could see it was a full deck before he picked them up and began to shuffle. The cards were all right, though they vaguely smelled like the old sock Blink kept them in and were too stiff to shuffle smoothly. His own deck had been broken in perfectly over hundreds of hands. They were soft from being handled so often and black smudges of fingerprints had turned the paper gray over time. He knew the backs of the cards almost as well as the front, but he never told that to anyone.

Spot knew how much he liked those cards, but he still ruined them.

He didn't know when or how, but he'd get Spot back for it. Fifty-two times over, if he could. Half the time he didn't know what they were getting back at each other for, but he'd remember this one. Spot would be sorry he was even born.

Race tried to push it from his mind, he had money to win.

As he dealt the first hand, he started up a conversation. Nice and harmless, something easy to listen to. The weather, the tracks, in didn't really matter. In his experience, conversation was just as important as skill in cards. There was an art to distracting people at key moments in the game, getting them to look away from the table for a split second or not realize how high the stakes were going.

After a few rounds, he managed to win enough to get ahead, but not enough to scare anyone off.

Inevitably, the talk turned toward recalling the glory days. The stories were violent, almost ridiculously so, and often embellished beyond reason. Race didn't contribute much, though he knew quite a few good ones. They weren't his stories to tell. He wasn't one of them anymore.

So, as the Brooklyn boys tried to top each other's best yarn, he played the game, taking advantage of the frequent lapses in attention to accumulate a respectable pile of coins. He tried not to laugh as they brought up a few about Spot, some he had helped to make up. It was priceless how they took each bullshit detail so seriously. Of course, he used to take it seriously too, but that was back when he was stupid.

"So," Race interrupted one particularly colorful story, unable to resist, "How exactly did Spot aim the slingshot, when he was chokin' a guy with one hand and fendin' off a vicious dog with the other?"

The boy who had been telling the story furrowed his brow, thinking for a moment. "Well, he…I guess he musta…I 'spose he could've…Hell, I don't know!" The boy scowled at Race for ruining his story.

"I pushed the guy toward the dog, let the dog take 'im out, then hit the dog with the slingshot," Spot answered easily.

Race's attention snapped to where the voice had come from.

There he was, just visible over the top of his newspaper. Sitting not ten feet away, and Race never saw him. He'd probably been there the whole time, too. Race tightened the grip on his cards.

There went his night.

"See?" the boy said triumphantly. "If you're so smart, you tell one better."

"All the good ones been told," Race muttered.

"What about the night Spot took a crack at Joey Pudge?" another boy from across the table suggested. "That's a good one. You was there when it happened, right?"

Race stiffened. He looked to Spot briefly only to find Spot was looking right back at him. His expression was stoic, hiding every bit of the fear Race knew was just below the surface. He could feel Spot's eyes boring into him each second he didn't answer, but he kept dealing the round. Spot could sweat it out for a few minutes.

Joey Pudge, the last kid that had stood between Spot and the top. Race hadn't thought about that night for a long while and with good reason. It was the night Spot showed he was willing to do anything it took and proved himself a Brooklyn boy through and through. It ended with Pudge dead and Spot bloody victorious.

It was a terrible night, a glory night.

It was Spot's big story, his real claim to fame and what he wanted in the back of everyone's mind each time they thought of him.

Too bad it never happened.

Race put the last card down and picked up his hand. "That's right," he replied finally, lying though his teeth.

The foundation of all Spot's greatness was built on a lie. One small lie he could never pass as the truth, no matter how many times he told it or how badly he wanted to believe it. No matter how high Spot climbed, how far he thought he'd gone, he was always only one step from falling. The threat of exposure always lingered because Race also knew the truth. In Spot's mind, Race would eternally have the upper hand and Spot hated him for it.

"So tell us how it went," one of the boys prompted him impatiently.

"You know how it went," Race said, looking over his cards. He knew the bloody version they wanted to hear, but he never liked telling it. Building up Spot wasn't exactly his favorite pastime.

It was true Spot went out looking for Pudge that night, along with everyone else who wanted to step up. It'd been time for change. Pudge knew it was coming, but he was too proud to leave. Spot even warned him, but he was too damn proud.

Against his better judgment, Race went along with Spot. He wanted to keep him from doing something he'd regret. Fortunately, Spot never got the opportunity. Pudge was dead long before they found him, probably from the kid that was lying nearby. Spot never laid a hand on Pudge, never even touched him. The closest he got was touching the ground next to the boy, rubbing blood and dirt on his hands to make it look like there'd been a fight

Spot had been in the right place at the right time, took the credit and never looked back. It wasn't exactly the stuff legends were made of.

"Come on! Tell us."

"He came here to play, not talk," Spot said abruptly.

Race laughed to himself. Spot probably thought he was mad enough to let the truth slip. Sometimes, Race thought that was the only thing that kept Spot from digging into him more than he already did. So he let Spot go on thinking it.

He'd given Spot his word on several occasions that he wouldn't say anything, but Spot didn't trust people who gave their word.

Though Spot would never believe it, his secret _was_ safe. Race had no interest in ruining him, making his life difficult certainly, but nothing that would destroy him. Besides, he'd given his word and even though it meant nothing to Spot, he wouldn't go back on it.

"He don't mind," the boy said. "Come on, Higgins, out with it."

"I don't mind," Race said innocently, getting a kick out of seeing Spot squirm. "I think I even remember a few things I never told no one before-"

Spot looked at him severely before he turned his attention to the rest of the table. That put an end to it. Nobody pursued the topic any further, becoming suddenly interested in their own cards. Race grinned smugly. Spot wasn't amused.

"What are _you_ smilin' at?" Spot glanced at Race's cards. "A pair ain't gonna win you nothin'."

Race shot Spot a biting glare. He'd already put thirty cents on that hand and was well on his way to bluffing a win. Cursing under his breath, he folded.

* * *

He was ahead, but not by enough to call it a winning night. Just as he was beginning to gain ground, the game had stopped for a break. The other players were either down the street trying to find a drink or outside watching the fight that had erupted a few moments before. Race wasn't interested in either, so he'd stayed behind and laid out a game of solitaire.

A few moves into the game, he became aware that someone was standing over him, but he chose to ignore it. He kept playing. Red nine on black ten. He was distracted again by the sudden rapping of the annoying someone's knuckle on the table, trying to get his attention.

Race looked up briefly, setting his jaw as he looked back down at his cards. The night had just gone from bad to worse.

"What, you ain't talkin' to me?" Spot asked, smiling as if there was nothing else in the world that would have pleased him more.

"I got nothin' to say to you," Race answered sharply. He flipped over a black eight and pretended to be preoccupied in where to play it. Any reasonable person would've taken the hint and keep walking, knowing they weren't wanted. Spot, however, was a pain in the neck.

"What a coincidence, I got nothin' to say to you neither," Spot said as he pulled a chair up to the opposite side of the table and sat down. The chair creaked as he leaned back and put his feet up on the table. He pulled out his own deck of cards and started shuffling them idly. True to his word, he didn't say anything.

Race fought the urge to get up and leave; he wouldn't let Spot win this one. He kept playing, trying to ignore everything but the game. Black six on red seven. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat under the unwanted attention. Spot just sat there, sprawled out lazily as he watched him play, shuffling those stupid cards.

Between the creaking of the chair, the bumping of the table every time Spot moved his feet and endless shuffling of that deck of cards, Race lost his concentration. But that was probably the whole point. It wasn't long before he hit a dead end. If no one were watching, he wouldn't have thought twice about looking through the deck to find a card to use. Though, with the peanut gallery fixed on his every move, he knew he wouldn't hear the end of it if he tried.

Angrily, he admitted defeat and began to pick up the cards.

"You shoulda put the four on the five diamond," Spot said offhandedly.

It was probably the most civil thing Spot had said to him in recent memory, so he wasn't sure why that one statement set him off. Maybe it was because he knew he should have played the four or because Spot was responsible for him missing the opportunity in the first place, but whatever the reason, his frustration finally boiled over. Race slammed the cards on the table. "You know what 'solitaire' means? It means mind your own damn business."

"Don't be sore. I'm just sayin'-"

"See, that's your problem. You talk too much. You wanna sit over there like a bonehead, you be quiet about it," Race snapped.

"There's that mouth again. You're forgettin' whose house your in," Spot said as he continued to shuffle his cards, taking the room in with quiet glance.

There was no one else within earshot, but Race already knew that. Otherwise, he wouldn't have bothered to start anything. He saw Spot relax a bit.

"What, you gonna kick me out again? Be my guest. We all know how that went," Race shot back.

Spot stretched out his legs and made himself more comfortable. "How 'bout I just kick you and call it a day?"

"You can try. It'd surprise me if you didn't trip over your own feet first, they're big enough to kick over half the town."

"Better than havin' a big head," Spot replied. "I bet you have trouble gettin' through doors."

"Well, I don't feel too bad for you, I hear they got jobs for people with big feet at the circus. Clowns or somethin'."

"You don't need to be a clown, people laugh at you just 'cause you're so ugly."

"Your mother wouldn't even look at you 'cause you were so ugly."

"At least I had a mother," Spot pointed out.

"Yeah, me and her had a lot of fun nights together. She didn't charge much."

Spot gave him a look. "That was low. "

"Well, _pardon me_," Race continued. "I didn't know you turned into such a little girl. Why don't you go cry about it?"

"You cry enough for the both of us. Besides, at least I'm taller than a girl."

Race caught himself before he laughed. Without fail, it always came back to the fact that he was short and Spot had a prostitute for a mother. Both were true, though the latter was rarely admitted to.

"What, you done already?" Spot asked with a small smile, proud of himself for getting the last word. "Christ, you're rusty. What do you do all day in Manhattan? Pour each other tea and dress your dollies?"

"You ain't exactly Paul Bunyan yourself," Race started again. He was just warming up, there was no way Spot could best him once he put his mind to it.

"Who the hell is Paul Bunyan?"

"I ain't surprised you don't know. See, it's a _Tall_ Tale."

"Oh yeah? Well-"

A rather drunk boy suddenly staggered through the front door and wobbled toward the stairs. Spot fell silent. Race remembered he wasn't in a good mood and Spot was the cause of it. The smiles disappeared and they both looked back down at their cards.

As soon as the boy was up the stairs, Spot pulled his feet off the table. As he stood, he held up the cards he had been shuffling so Race could see them. There was something very familiar about those cards. Spot flipped the deck in his hand, showing Race the back for instant before he tossed them down on the table.

If there was any doubt in Race's mind before, it was gone. They were his. The ones that were supposed to be fish food, waterlogged and otherwise ruined. They were just as he had left them, not a corner bent or a side torn.

"Keep better track of your things. Next time I won't give 'em back," Spot told him.

Race hesitated before reaching across the table to take them, still not quite believing that Spot had given them back and they were in usable condition. Once the cards were safely in his hand, his disbelief quickly turned to suspicion. There were undoubtedly strings attached. Spot didn't make things that easy and he certainly didn't do them out of the kindness of his heart.

Spot doing something for nothing was something to be wary of. But an even exchange, that was something Race could understand.

"I guess I owe you one, then," Race said slowly, still trying to figure out his motive.

"I guess you do," Spot replied, a smile finally snaking to his lips.


	5. five

It was getting late into the night, but nobody seemed to notice. The room was just as loud and crowded as it had been hours before.

Spot had joined a few others who were shooting dice. Gathered in the corner, they watched as the dice hit the wall and rolled back over the coins and cigarette ashes that littered the floor. In the middle, bets were thrown down as fast as the dice turned. He liked the game better than cards. It was simple, straightforward and usually profitable. None of the bullshit, twice the action.

The card game was back in full swing on the other side of the room, though a few of the players had lost all their money and could only watch. Race had steadily increased his winnings even though half the table was cheating. They were passing cards to each other under the table and signaling who had what. Spot would have said something, but he didn't care. They could cheat all they wanted just as long as they didn't try to cheat him.

Race wouldn't call them on it either. Nobody here would back him. Besides, he'd gotten his cards back and that would probably shut him up for awhile.

Spot swore under his breath as the dice rolled Craps. He lit a cigarette as the next boy took his turn shooting.

Returning Race's cards had been his good deed for the month. Well, the second, if he counted not punching the blind kid that had mistakenly called him 'miss' the week before. He was just a fountain of generosity. And to think, people said he was heartless.

He'd planned to hold onto the cards for a bit longer, but Race had to go and do him a favor. There was no good reason why Race kept lying for him after all this time. Spot never asked him to keep quiet, never accepted his promises he would. It was ultimately more annoying than anything else because Spot knew if it were the other way around, he probably would have ratted Race out years ago.

They had been friends, so he supposed it wasn't impossible that Race still carried some sense of that loyalty. Race was stupid like that. He looked out for other people when he could be looking out for himself. Loyalty was the only reason Race was with him that night Pudge died. It was the only reason he had stayed as long as he did.

Though Race had mostly kept it to himself, he'd never liked the idea of Spot getting to the top. He said it was dangerous, he said it would make Spot dangerous. He'd been right, but Spot never gave him the satisfaction of knowing it.

Race had helped him at first, like any friend would. He could work any problem, think things through. But the farther Spot got, the more people ended up getting hurt. Race didn't think it was right, whatever that meant. The laughter turned uneasy, the encouragement turned to warnings. It was too late, though. By that point, Spot could think well enough for himself and didn't need Race anymore. So, Spot told him to leave if he had a problem. He stayed, though.

Right until the end.

It was the only time Spot asked him to stay. He left.

Race had probably begun to realize what Spot had known from the beginning. Even though he hadn't killed Pudge that night, he could have if he needed to. Wouldn't have lost too much sleep over it either. Spot wasn't proud of some of the things he had done, but they were necessary. They weren't living in a kind world. He always thought Racetrack would eventually see it his way. He never did.

Spot watched the dice spin a seven. Finally, he'd won. It wasn't much, just a nickel, but he'd take anything at this point.

"This should be good," a boy crouched next to him said, nodding toward the card game.

Spot glanced up, appraising the situation as he picked up the dice from the floor. Murphy, one of the boys that had been cheating the entire night, was now accusing Race of cheating. Race was denying it so vehemently Spot might have believed him if he didn't know better.

"Nah." Spot dismissed it. "Higgins'll back off." He held his cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he shook the dice. He threw them down and watched as they hit the wall before scattering back on the floor. A two. That was the third time in a row he'd gotten Craps. And they were his dice, so he knew they weren't crooked. It just wasn't his night. Cursing under his breath, he put down a bet on the next shooter.

"I don't think he's backin' off…"

Spot spared the table another look, this time with more interest. Race was on his feet, toe-to-toe with Murphy. The other boys at the table were trying to get them to sit and play, but they seemed more intent on staring each other down. As much as Spot appreciated a good fight, he didn't like the match-up. Sure, they were about the same size and Race might have been able to give Murphy a run for his money in a fair fight, but Murphy didn't fight fair, especially with outsiders. If things weren't going his way, he wouldn't think twice before pulling the knife he kept tucked under his shirt.

Spot could only hope Race would use his brains and see the danger in the situation. If he got himself into a legitimate fight, there would be little Spot could do. Not that he intended to do anything. Race could take care of himself and he didn't really care one way or the other.

"You cheated," Murphy maintained.

"You're a liar," Race shot back.

"What'd you say to me?"

"You're a fuckin' _liar_," Race repeated loudly. "You want me to say it again?"

Spot tried not to laugh as he looked back down his game. Race was clearly not having one of his smarter moments.

"Greasy mutt," Murphy retorted.

Race narrowed his eyes. "Oh yeah? You green piece of sh-"

Spot took the cigarette from his mouth long enough to shout across the room. "Keep it down."

He was trying to win some money, and he couldn't do it if everyone was more interested in the prospect of a fight than the dice. He hit the floor a few times to get the players' attention back where it belonged. Besides, there wouldn't be a fight. Race didn't fight; he took off when things heated up.

Neither of them lowered their voices. In fact, they didn't even acknowledge Spot had said anything at all. They were too preoccupied in firing insults at each other.

"Hey!" Spot shouted again, this time getting their attention. "Knock it off or take it outside."

That would put an end to it. If they continued it outside, they'd have to leave the game, which would mean leaving their cards and money to the mercy of the other players. Nobody in their right mind would do that. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he was doing Race a favor. Murphy would beat him, no question.

Exchanging nasty looks, they unwillingly sat back down. Race looked at Spot suspiciously as if the only reason he had butted in was to be irritating.

"Aw, why'd you do that?" the boy next to Spot complained. "It was just gettin' goin'."

" 'Cause I did," Spot answered, not finding a need to explain himself further. He gestured for the shooter to roll.

The dice had barely hit the wall when he heard a chair slam back against the floor. Spot turned his head, taking a drag off his cigarette as he saw Murphy push Race. He exhaled slowly as Race shoved the boy back. Flicking the ash from the cigarette, he watched as they traded insults. Part of him wanted to stop it before it turned bad, another part of him knew he shouldn't interfere. So, he didn't. He just smoked his cigarette and watched with a careful eye as the first punch was thrown. If Race was so intent on getting himself hurt, he wasn't going to bend over backwards to get in the way.

Immediately, odds were shout back and forth across the room until one was agreed on. Ten-to-one Race would win. Spot didn't take part. He didn't bet on long shots. It wasn't a question of Murphy winning, it was of how long Race would last.

Race landed a lucky punch and a chorus of cheers erupted from the room, probably from those that had bet against Murphy. Working the pain from his hand, Race took a few steps back to give himself more room. Murphy recovered slowly, a bit too slowly. Spot saw him struggling to pull something from under his shirt. Spot stood. He strained to get a clear line of sight through the onlookers, trying to keep his eye on Murphy as he advanced on Race. Murphy was keeping his hand deliberately behind his back so Race couldn't see what he was holding. But Spot saw it. The metal glinted faintly in the lamplight.

Spot took a final drag on the cigarette before dropping it to smolder on the floor. He moved silently through the boys circled around the action, making his way to the front. As he broke through to the center, he saw Murphy throw a punch with his free hand. Race caught his arm easily, not recognizing it for the trick it was. With his attention focused on holding onto the other boy, Race left his side completely exposed for Murphy to stick him.

Of course, that might have been the plan, but Spot wasn't about to let it happen.

Spot dug his fingers into Race's shoulder and attempted to pry him from the other boy. Race threw him off, but he quickly regained his footing and was right back in the middle of it. He was stronger than Spot remembered him being.

"Higgins, get off him," Spot ordered, to little effect. Race tried to push past him and get at Murphy, but Spot was having none of it. He locked his arm around Race's neck, shouting at everyone else to back down. With one quick movement, he yanked Race back and kept him there, holding him slightly off-balance so he couldn't try anything stupid. "You're done, Race," he said under his breath. "Calm down."

Spot's eyes swept the room, instinctively searching for anyone who might give him trouble. Murphy was still too close for comfort, and there was still that distinctly sharp piece of metal in his hand.

"Murph!" Spot snapped, not needing to say anything else. Murphy grudgingly put his hands up and backed away, slipping the metal down his sleeve as he did so. Race was too preoccupied in staying on his feet to see, which was probably for the best. Spot wouldn't be able to live it down if Race knew he'd helped him.

"What's the matter with you? This ain't your business," Race said angrily, as his attempts to break free failed.

"I told you to knock it off," Spot said loudly. He wanted everyone to hear, so there would be no question about his motive. It couldn't be known that he was going so far to protect someone who wasn't one of his own.

Like always, Race couldn't keep his mouth shut. "He started it-"

Spot tightened his grip and silenced anything else Race may have wanted to say. He hauled him toward the door, twisting him away from the others. Spot looked over his shoulder. Murphy was talking quietly with a few other boys, planning something that could only be bad.

"Walk outta here," Spot told Race quietly.

"What?" He could hear the confusion in Race's voice.

"Leave," Spot said quickly. "You owe me, so do it."

After a moment, he felt Race nod. Spot released him and he stumbled forward, colliding into the wood of the doorframe.

"Get out," Spot said coldly, purely for the benefit of everyone else. Thankfully, Race went along with it and refrained from rolling his eyes. He wasn't happy, but that wasn't anything new.

Murphy looked satisfied that Spot had taken his side, abandoning his plans with a sneer. "Yeah, beat it."

Spot watched Race as he finally left, though not before he told Murphy to go to Hell. Spot waited before turning back to the room, making sure nobody followed Race out into the street. It had been a close call, but Race would never know it. He didn't know half of the things Spot did for him.

Everyone moved out of his way as Spot crossed the room toward the table.

"Which is Higgins'?" Spot asked, gesturing to the small stacks of coins scattered over the table. One of the boys pointed out a pile on the far side. He pocketed the money as Murphy sat back down at his place.

"I wasn't gonna mess 'im up too bad," Murphy said with a dark smile. He was faking it. He wasn't half as tough as he pretended to be, though he was stupid enough to believe he was.

"Sure, you wasn't," Spot said, humoring him. "What'd you win off 'im anyway?"

"A couple bucks," Murphy replied with pride.

"Oh yeah?" Spot nodded, as if he was impressed. Race wouldn't part with that much money in a game, fair or not. Murphy probably stole it off the table, wouldn't be the first time. "Lemme see it."

Murphy pulled a sizable amount of change from his pocket and piled it on the table.

"Not bad, Murph," Spot said, sifting through the coins. It was more than two dollars. He swept the change off the edge of the table and into his hand. Without apology or explanation, he put it into his own pocket along with the rest of Race's money.

"Come on, Spot! I won that fair 'n square," Murphy protested.

"You cheated," Spot said flatly.

Murphy became defensive. "Only 'cause he did."

"Can you prove it?"

"Well, no. But he did, I know it."

"See, that's the difference. I saw you cheatin' from across the room. You were sittin' right next to him and you still don't know for sure," Spot said. "When you learn to cheat as good as him, then you got a right to this money. Next time, don't get caught."

"You owe me for this," Murphy muttered.

"I owe you, huh?" Spot asked condescendingly. "How 'bout I don't bust your face, how's that work for ya?"

Murphy realized his mistake and swallowed. "Yeah."

"Yeah?" Spot repeated mockingly.

"Yeah." Murphy said, looking away.

"Good," Spot said. "And the next time you pull a knife on him, I'll gut you."

He stood over the table silently, letting the threat sink in. He let his eyes drift over the room. It was a warning to all of them. No one looked at him. Satisfied, he left the table and strode to the front door. He wouldn't actually do it, but nobody knew the difference. Hell, he didn't even know how to gut someone.

The cool night air hit him as he stepped out onto the street.

Dimly in the lamplight, he could see Race walking further down the block.

"Hey!" Spot called ahead. Race glanced over his shoulder, but didn't slow down. Spot had to jog a bit to catch up, but Race let him.

Hands in his pockets, Race looked at him sideways. "What was that all about?"

"Murph ain't someone you want to be fightin' with. He don't fight fair," Spot said.

Race practically laughed. "Since when do you care?"

"I don't," Spot said smoothly. "I just don't feel like tellin' Jack you got yourself killed playin' cards."

"Killed?" Race snorted. "Nobody was gettin' killed. You need to get outta Brooklyn more, it's doin' things to ya. Makin' you more crazy than usual."

"Very funny," Spot said. He refrained from telling Race how wrong he was. It wouldn't do any good, anyway. Race never believed him. Instead, Spot pulled the coins from his pocket. "Here."

Race held out his hand and took the money. Only after it was in his hand, did he seem to realize where it was from. Race stopped walking and for one brief moment, he looked genuinely surprised. He recovered quickly though, and regarded Spot warily. "What's this?"

"Merry Christmas," Spot said, enjoying he fact he had caught Race off-guard. He hadn't managed to do that in awhile.

"It's summer."

"So, Happy fuckin' New Year then." Spot shrugged with a smug smile.

Race studied him for a moment, as if trying to figure out what angle he was working. He looked back down at the money and the uncertainly disappeared in an instant. His hand closed tightly around the coins and he pointed an accusing finger at Spot.

"Don't do that again," Race said sharply.

"Do what?"

"Look out for me."

"I wasn't," Spot said quickly, picking up the anger in Race's voice. Race made it sound like he was doing it to be nice. If he did anything, it was because he felt like it. He didn't need Race telling him what he should and shouldn't do.

"We don't look out for each other no more," Race stated, as if saying it would make it true.

"I look out for myself, that's it," Spot countered. "I wouldn't be caught dead helpin' you."

"Good, 'cause if you was the last person in the world, I still wouldn't help you," Race said bitingly.

"Good," Spot said evenly.

"Good." Race crossed his arms.

They looked at each other through narrowed eyes for a few tense moments before Race abruptly jammed the money into his pocket and started walking toward Manhattan. Spot turned back to the house, his quickening pace fueled by anger. He kicked a glass bottle out of his way and felt satisfaction as it shattered against the side of a building.

They were both liars anyway.

* * *

* * *

A/n: All done! Thanks for sticking with me. If you have a few minutes to spare, let me know what you thought.

I'm thinking of writing another, possibly the other way around with Spot venturing into Race's arena, but I'll have to see if I can come up with a plausible way for that to happen :0) Until next time…


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